


Temptation

by dragon_temeraire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:03:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_temeraire/pseuds/dragon_temeraire
Summary: Crowley was not the only demon he’d ever met.





	Temptation

Crowley was not the only demon he’d ever met.

In his time on earth, Aziraphale had occasionally encountered other, lesser demons. Some had been hanging around poverty-stricken neighborhoods, others around playgrounds or churches. And one thing that had struck him—besides the revoltingness of their motivations, of their actions—was how they reveled in being disgusting.

They were always dirty and smelly, covered in sores or boils or pustules, and surrounded by flies or midges, or, on one memorable occasion, _hornets_. (Aziraphale had vowed to never harm one of God’s creatures, but surely hornets were an exception.) Their mouths were filled with rotting teeth, and their voices and minds were coarse and full of gravel. Worst of all, they were selfish and mean and cruel.

They were meant to be tempting humans, but the fact was, _nothing_ about them was tempting.

Crowley, by comparison, clearly put great effort into himself. He dressed in his own unique, appealing style, he was always clean, and he smelled good, in a deep, smoky sort of way. His skin was clear of blemishes, his teeth were white, and his hair—even when overburdened with product—always looked rather touchable. And his voice, though it could at times be raspy or mocking, was always pleasing to listen to. Shamefully, Aziraphale also found himself rather taken with the tiny coiled snake in front of Crowley’s right ear, and would gaze at it often, imagining—well, it didn’t matter.

Overall, Crowley was altogether _too_ appealing. And that frightened him—not only for the absurdity of an angel falling for a demon, as he’d admittedly noticed more than Crowley’s good looks—but because of the certainty that Crowley would not understand his affections, and would likely be disturbed by them.

So he was determined show nothing but friendship to Crowley, and sometimes even less than that, to keep distance between them. He had to constantly remind himself that Crowley—who he’d shared so much with—was nothing like him at all, really, and should be looked at as a strong-willed inconvenience at best.

This was difficult though, as he rather liked Crowley, and frequently rebuffing his invitations and requests made his heart ache.

And sometimes he got the feeling that these rejections might be hurting Crowley too, but surely that was foolishness.

It became even harder during the apocalypse to act—to _believe_ —that they were on two different sides, when they had so obviously carved out their own niche, together, a long time ago. Every time he tried to reinforce the barrier between them, he found himself struggling, overcompensating, floundering. He wanted to be around Crowley, to be _with_ Crowley, but at the same time feared it would be his undoing.

The truth of the matter was that he couldn’t relate to the other angels at all. They were all too arrogant and simplistic and war-hungry. In all the centuries he’d known them, they hadn’t changed at all. They had no interest in creativity or learning or material possessions. He couldn’t have a rousing conversation with them, or get fantastically drunk, or even just sit on a park bench, feeding the ducks and enjoying the day.

Not like he could with Crowley.

And it was likely Crowley was in the same situation—he didn’t seem enjoy spending time with his fellow demons, either. He spent as little time possible down there with them, spoke of them with derision, and clearly didn’t care for their small-minded, out-of-touch approach. Unlike them, Crowley had intelligence, had imagination, and an active interest—perhaps even a fondness—for the earth and its inhabitants.

And that was probably were his love for Crowley had blossomed from—that he actually seemed to care about _life_ , and interacted with it, rather than lurking on the fringes. Somehow, with Crowley, the world always seemed like an even better place to be.

How many times had Crowley patiently admired a book he had no interest in reading, just because Aziraphale was excited to have it? How many times had Crowley listened to his worries, then found the perfect way to reassure him? And how many times had Crowley come to one of their meetings in the park with a sad-looking potted plant, told it menacingly that its time of destruction had come, and then, without fanfare, had instead planted it by a bench or stream?

Surely someone like that couldn’t be _completely_ evil.

(For a long time, Aziraphale had been doubting whether Crowley was evil at all. Especially considering how few bad deeds Crowley actually seemed to do. And especially considering the number of times Crowley had showed up to _save his life_.)

And now they were sitting on a park bench, on a beautiful day, and Aziraphale was sure he was practically glowing with happiness. It was over and they were _free_.

“We survived the apocalypse _and_ our respective punishments,” Crowley says grandly, sunglasses off and eyes fixed somewhere out in the distance. He smiles—well, smirks—and adds, “So, while everyone’s too busy mopping up to pay any attention, now’s your chance to do something you’ve always wanted to do, but never thought you could.” His eyes flicker briefly toward Aziraphale, then away again. “If there is something.”

And Aziraphale finds himself considering, because so many of his doubts have been extinguished by everything that’s happened. Though mostly by Crowley saying—more than once!—that they should run away together, as though no matter what decision they made, it was absurd, _unthinkable_ , that they wouldn’t be with each other at the end of it.

Crowley isn’t like any other demon he’s ever met. And maybe that means there _is_ a chance.

It’s this thought, this sentiment, that makes Aziraphale brave, just this once. He has to try, even if it means Crowley will never speak to him again.

He gives into his own temptation and leans in, closes his eyes and breathes in Crowley’s scent as he presses his lips to that little snake in front of Crowley’s ear. It feels better than he could have ever imagined.

Then Crowley turns his head, carefully, until his lips are beneath Aziraphale’s own, and that feels even better still.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was very painful for me to write (I currently have severe nerve pain in my hand and wrist), but I was so inspired I typed it up anyway!  
> (And to anyone wondering, yes, I am still working on the phoenix Stiles fic)


End file.
